


Of the Devil's Party

by apple_pi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is from this quote, attributed to William Blake: <i>The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet, and of the Devil’s party without knowing it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Of the Devil's Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jocondite (jocondite)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/gifts).



“Had enough yet?” Crowley peered at Aziraphale. The angel was nodding, possibly at something the demon had said fifteen minutes ago, possibly at this latest question. “S’it ssafe to talk about it?” Crowley leaned forward and clinked his glass unsteadily against Aziraphale’s. “Hm? You going to be able to, angel?”

Aziraphale was still nodding. “I think so,” he said. “Can’t feel my nose.” He put his tumbler aside and began tapping the organ in question, eyes going slightly crossed. “Yep. I mean, yes. Fire away.” He stopped tapping and focused (in a rather loose sense of the word) upon the demon.

Crowley put his own glass on the coffee table with a careful _clink_. “Heard anything, then?”

“No. Not a word. Not a whisper, not a hint, not a syllabub.” The angel giggled.

“Me’eether. Me _aye_ ther,” Crowley amended. He tried to look dignified: sat up tall, pulled the lapels of his black blazer straight. “I think they don’t want to admit anything.” He slouched back again and propped his foot on the table.

“Mmmmmmmhm.” Aziraphale nodded (some more). “S’what I think, too. Think they’re embarrassed.” He looked, blearily, compassionate for his bosses. “Poor things. Outdone by an eleven-year-old.”

Crowley snickered. “Serves them right. Bloody bastards, bloody wanting to end the world. Perfectly good world. Nothin’ wrong wiffit. With it.”1 He gestured at, well, something. His flat, or possibly the great wide world outside it. “Ssss’got trees, an’ rain,” the damp patter of it began against the windows just then, and Aziraphale blinked, “an’, an’, cars’n’ stuff.” A crash from the street far below, and Crowley smiled happily. The angel frowned and distant shouts of amazement were heard as the motorists walked away from the smoking ruins of their cars, miraculously2 unscathed.

Crowley looked over the tops of his sunglasses as Aziraphale. “Sspoilsport,” he hissed. Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“We both have our jobs to do,” he said.

“M’tired of it, though,” Crowley said. “And they’re not even checking in on us anymore. Whassa, whassa _point_ , ‘f I’m not trying to avoid the torments of Hell and all that.” Another vague gesture. “Wiles, and all.”

“Thwarting,” Aziraphale agreed.

They sat in contemplative silence, listening to the rain and the quiet sounds of the wreckage below being cleared away.

“Still,” Aziraphale said when all was silent again, but for the sounds of water. He was slumped back into the corner of the sofa, linen suit rather rumpled, cheeks pink with the whisky. “It’s a perfectly good world.”

“Sss’what I said,” Crowley agreed. “Lotsa good things.”

“Whisky,” the angel suggested.

“Excellent example.” Crowley patted the back of the sofa between them. “Leather furniture.”

“Slidey,” the angel said, slipping comfortably down another inch or so. “Noses,” he added, tapping his nose again. “Noses are good.”

“S’a nice nose,” Crowley said, leaning over to look at it. He sat back up and was about to say _Chateau Haut Briond Pessac-Lognan_ when something caught his eye. “Your, er,” he said instead, looking at it, and Aziraphale looked confused.

“My what?” He followed Crowley’s gaze downward and blushed. “Well, thank you,” he said, “but really, I don’t think –”

“No, no,” Crowley said, still staring. “Didn’t mean to sssing its _praises_ , angel.” He rolled his eyes, then looked back down. “It’s hard. Don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. You have an _erection_ ,” he said with relish.

The blush spread from Aziraphale’s cheeks to his ears. “It does that,” he said. “Human, ehm, body and all. Nothing to do but wait, I’m afraid, and it’ll go away by itself.” He sounded resigned. And then offended: “And what do you mean, rolling your eyes, it’s a perfectly nice –”

“You can get rid of it other ways, you know,” Crowley said. He inched closer, mouth curving up at one corner. It was a wicked smile, and Crowley knew perfectly well that it looked sinfully good on him.

“Oh, well, you know.” Aziraphale shrugged one shoulder. His voice sounded a little unsteady. “Too much trouble. I’ve never really wanted the bother…” His voice trailed off into a squeak and his body went rigid as Crowley’s hand pressed to the source of the bother.

“I could help,” Crowley said.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale babbled, “that’s kind of you, but I really think, I, oh,” he stopped talking and pressed himself back into the corner of the sofa, neck joining his cheeks and ears in general ruddiness as Crowley’s hand rubbed and squeezed and he pressed closer and closer. “Oh,” the angel said faintly.

Crowley looked up at his face; Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and luminous and a bit glassy, and very very blue against the vivid stain of his blush. “Jusst let me,” Crowley whispered. He was surprised to find that he meant it, and not in the won’t-I-get-a-promotion-for-tempting-an-angel sort of way, but in the this-is-having-a-definite-effect-on-my-southern-regions-and-I’m-not-saying-what-else sort of way.

Maybe that was why Aziraphale didn’t struggle away when Crowley maneuvered them both about, and maybe that was why the angel only drew in a ragged breath when Crowley, curled around his side on the sofa, pushed open his trousers and shoved down his pants3 and pulled him out and really set to work, mouth damp and hot against Aziraphale’s neck, wrist flexing as his hand worked, steady and competent and sure.

“Feel good?” Crowley asked a few minutes later, and Aziraphale nodded (Crowley’s lips smeared along the line of his jaw) and made a strangled sound.

He coughed and swallowed, and said, “I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Crowley grinned and flicked his tongue out and along the tendon in Aziraphale’s neck. “Put one on the arm of the sofa, and the other on my thigh,” he suggested; a moment later he drew his thumb over the head of Aziraphale’s prick – it was wet, slick with precome – so that the hand on his thigh clutched at him convulsively. Aziraphale bucked in his arms – embrace? _No, certainly not_ , the demon thought with no certainty at all – and let his head fall back onto Crowley’s shoulder. His shirt had rucked up and Crowley wished he could lick the angel’s stomach; it looked delicious, taut and quivering, a line of soft hair leading downward to where Crowley stroked him hard and fast.

“I, oh,” Aziraphale said, his voice rather high and uncertain, “Crowley, I feel strange, are you certain this –”

“Let go,” Crowley purred into his ear, and bit his earlobe. “You’re getting close. Just let it happen, angel.”

“Oh, but I, oh, oh, oh,” Aziraphale gasped and came, spurting onto the soft plane of his belly, a second and third, sluggish, pulse spilling over the demon’s knuckles as Aziraphale whimpered and shook.

“There now,” Crowley murmured. “There.” He pulled twice more, slow and tight, then stopped. He kept Aziraphale cupped in his palm (wrapped in his arms) until he began to soften. “Sssee?” the demon said. “I told you there was another way to make it go away. And my method is much nicer.”

Aziraphale sighed and lifted his head, blinking down at his groin. “It’s awfully messy,” he said.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it before,” Crowley said. “After six thousand years hanging around with humans? _Everything_ about them is messy.” He pulled his hand away and waved it vaguely around.

“Well, I thought,” Aziraphale sat up and away, still pink around the edges as he pulled his pants and trousers up, “I mean, I thought perhaps since I’m an angel, it might be, might have been –”

Crowley laughed. “What, you thought you might shoot rainbows and butterfliesss?” The word fizzed away into laughter at Aziraphale’s expression, and Crowley thought his hand clean with a little effort. “Vanity is one of the seven deadlies, you know,” he added, still snickering.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, looking away. He bit his lip. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, crawling over him. He shoved one knee between Aziraphale’s thigh and the arm of the sofa, then settled onto him. “You’re no sinner, and you’re about as vain as a doornail.”

“No,” the angel said, “I was vain for a moment there, I –”

“Now, if you had _this_ in your Y-fronts,” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and placed it squarely on his own crotch, “you’d have something to be vain about.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly, and the demon leaned down to lick his ear again.

“Charity, angel?” he said, and sighed happily when he felt Aziraphale’s hand give a tentative little squeeze. “I knew I could count on you for a good deed.”

“Whatever are we going to say when they do finally start asking questions again?” Aziraphale said, turning his head and speaking into the demon’s hair as his hand pressed more firmly.

Crowley wriggled against him. “It’s all in the marketing,” he said. “You tell yours that you’re, ah, oh, um… converting me to see things in a holy light through love, and I’ll tell mine I’m corrupting you with, ah, lascivious actitivitiesss… We’ll probably both – oh! I mean, I, oh, I never taught you that, _oh_ , Je – I mean, it’s good, don’t – ah, don’t stop.” He panted and thought about willing his trousers away,4 but letting the angel fumble his way into them had its own set of attractions.

“We’ll probably both what,” Aziraphale said a few minutes later, when Crowley was sprawled over him and both of them were breathless and sticky again.

“Mm?” Crowley was listening to the rain, and thinking that probably it was bad for his demonic reputation, to feel quite this relaxed and benevolent, but honestly, there was just no way around it, and it might be, oh, _minutes_ before he felt the urge to do anything more wicked than lick the angel’s nose wetly.

“You said, before.” Aziraphale’s hand wandered over Crowley’s back, up into his hair. “When I asked what our superiors would say. _We’ll probably both_ , you said.”

Crowley hummed and sighed. “We’ll probably both get commendations,” he said, and lifted his head to take off his sunglasses. The nosepiece was pressing dreadfully into the bridge of his nose. He dropped his head again and burrowed deeper into Aziraphale’s neck.

“Just like Milton Keynes,” Crowley heard the angel say, “and we both know how well that turned out.” He sounded dry, but not unhappy, and then there was only the sound of the rain and the feel of the angel’s hand, stroking his hair.

 

 

 

 

\-----------------------------------------------  
1 The occasional odd accent snuck into Crowley’s speech when he was taken in drink, although it was just as likely to be a Judean camel-driver as an East End cabbie. And Aziraphale had never ever let him forget the time he’d spoken like a Man U fan from the rougher side of the city while on a week-long bender.  
2 Literally.  
3 The demon did smirk at that, but honestly. White cotton Y-fronts? Crowley would have had to turn in his union card if he didn’t smirk at those. [Ed.: The writer felt a powerful urge to footnote the footnote here – _something_ needs to be said about demons and unions and so forth – but the realities of the situation defeated her. Enough is enough, she said, and even footnotes have their limitations.]  
4 Did you think he was wearing pants?


End file.
